He was not exactly an imbecile--merely feeble-minded, unable to
remember his past, or even the events of a year gone by--an elderly
man who loafed about the studio building, a man with few wants and no
vices, who picked up a scanty living by cleaning up studios for the
artists, and occasionally posing for them. We called him Old Bill; he
did not know his last name, and was subject to fainting spells.
The artist, like myself, was a marine painter, each of us having
followed the sea when young, and in answering to the higher call that
comes at least once in every man's life, had taken to art with the
sea for a specialty. We both painted ships and shipwrecks, storms and
sailors, but the difference between us in age, experience, and ability
was so great that there was never anything but sincere friendship
between us.
I welcomed his advice and criticism, and he welcomed my society,
because, as he put it, my youth and enthusiasm revived his failing
energies. His studio adjoined mine, and when the afternoon light had
waned, I visited him to smoke, talk, and listen to his yarns, for he
had been longer at sea than I had, and he had more to tell. Also,
besides being a master of his art, he was a deep student of science,
keeping himself well informed on each new invention and discovery; and
his comments on such subjects were practical, logical, and conclusive.
As, for instance, in discussing that ninety-and-nine days' wonder,
the wreck of the _Titanic_, and the proposed measures to prevent a
repetition of such a terrible disaster, he had laughed at the futile
idea of more lifeboats.
"All the lifeboats in the world," he said, "will not avail of
themselves if they must be lowered from a boat deck seventy feet
high, with the steamer rolling in a heavy sea. They would all smash
against the side before half-way down. The _Titanic_ had a smooth sea,
remember."
"Long davits," I suggested, "to keep them well outboard."
"Long davits--long enough to answer the purpose--would foul one
another."
"Short davits, then, and travelers up and down the side."
"Impracticable, even if a steamship company would be willing to
disfigure their ships so much. In time of panic, the boats could not be
fitted into the travelers."
"But don't you think," I asked, "that more and stronger compartments
would solve the difficulty?"
"They would have to be as strong as the side of the ship," he answered,
"and the necessary angle irons and bracings would interfere with cargo
space and interior accommodations."
"Then a detachable upper deck," I said, "that would stay in place by
gravity, but float if the hull sank."
"It would break into pieces in a seaway. It would need to be an upper
section of two decks with an air space. Well, how about hatches,
stairways, and masts leading to the lower body? The two ends of the
ship, which are clear of these fixtures, would not hold all hands, and
if you do away with hatches, making this upper section water-tight,
how about the hundreds of people--engineers, firemen, and steerage
passengers--imprisoned in the hull?"
"Right," I answered. "It seems, then, that the only safety from ice is
in the Southern Lane route, and slow speed in a fog."
"Yes, unless this English scientist's invention proves practicable.
Have you read of it?"